Poison Pen

By Val Tobin

Three aspiring authors struggle to recover from the devastation of a colleague’s murder. Can these women find love amidst mayhem, or will they learn writing can be murder?

Robin refuses to leave the house, Daphne has OCD, and Beth falls asleep at the most inopportune moments. When evidence in a colleague’s murder points to Beth, the three decide there’s only one thing they can do: catch the real killer. But can they interfere in a murder investigation without running afoul of the law and the killer?

Detective Jacob Turner hunts for a killer amongst a group of wannabe writers and finds himself attracted to Robin. Café owner Andrew Winston can’t take his eyes off Beth. High school physics teacher Ian Fergus offers Daphne the shoulder she needs to cry on after her brother’s brutal murder. But there’s a small matter of a killer on the loose standing between them and happiness. Will their love for the three women lead to their demise?

A "howcatchem" rather than a "whodunit," Poison Pen is a stand-alone romantic suspense novel and part of the About Three Authors series.

***Poison Pen is #12 on ReadFreely’s list of the 50 Best Indie Books of 2018.***

Fast-paced Poison Pen will leave you as breathless as going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Get Poison Pen now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Val Tobin
• Release date: Aug 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988609096

Val Tobin

Val Tobin writes speculative fiction and searches the world over for the perfect butter tart. Her home is in Newmarket, Ontario, where she enjoys writing, reading, and talking about writing and reading.

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to Andrea Holmes; Val Cseh; Michelle Legere; John Erwin; Alis Kennedy; Wendy Quirion; Diane King, owner of The Hedge Witch in Sharon, Ontario; Sergeant Kelly Bachoo, York Regional Police; Melanie Smith; Myra Lawson; Stephanie Sabourin, Media Relations Specialist, Niagara Regional Police; and Dan Savoie, Niagara Regional Police Service.

The opposite of love is fear. Thank you, Doreen Virtue, for the knowledge you imparted through your books and classes.

Editing by Kelly Hartigan (XterraWeb) editing.xterraweb.com. Thank you, Kelly.

Thanks to Patti Roberts of Paradox (paradoxbooktrailerproductions.blogspot.com.au/) for the amazing cover and for beta reading.

DEDICATIONS

To the memory of Rod Gardner. RIP, my friend. You are missed. To my readers: without you, this would be just a YOP in the void. To Bob, Jenn, Mark, Chanelle, Savannah, and Jack, always.

Success makes so many people hate you. I wish it wasn't that way. It would be wonderful to enjoy success without seeing envy in the eyes of those around you. — Marilyn Monroe

Never underestimate the power of jealousy and the power of envy to destroy. Never underestimate that. — Oliver Stone

Chapter 1

The place was a stone and steel palace. Whenever Conrad Barnes visited, which was often, the bile rose in his throat and his stomach churned with resentment.

But not today.

He parked his bike next to the fifteen-hundred-square-foot garage and hooked his helmet over the handlebars. On any other day, he would’ve stewed over the fact that the garage alone dwarfed his house.

But not today.

He almost whistled as he approached the glass-enclosed front entrance. With his head down, he exposed to the security cameras only the top of the long, blond wig he wore. He threw a quick glance towards the Niagara River, which fronted one thousand feet of the property on the outskirts of Niagara-on-the-Lake in Ontario. Coast clear, Conrad eased the glass door open and slipped onto the porch.

Before ringing the bell, he removed the wig and the women’s bulky sweater he wore despite the warm, humid air and stuffed them into the backpack he carried. Next, he wiped his lipstick-coated mouth with a moist towelette. He shoved the soiled tissue and the rest of the packet into a Ziploc bag and then into the backpack.

Later, he’d burn the soiled tissue but planned to keep what remained of the packet—no need to be wasteful. The backpack he set in the right corner of the porch beside the front door. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair to remove the flatness from the helmet and wig. The pair of running shoes he’d stolen from their owner remained on his feet.

After weeks of snooping, he’d scoped out every camera at every angle in the place. Thankfully, Leon Patterson valued his privacy and the electronic eyes focused outward only. Inside, Conrad would be safe from such surveillance, but he kept himself pressed to the front doors once he’d removed the wig and sweater.

He drew the cuff of his white collared shirt over his right fist and rang the doorbell with a cloth-covered knuckle. While he waited, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. With his right hand, he clutched the packet of ground water hemlock root, his ticket to riches and fame.

After a few minutes, he repeated the bell-ringing process. As he considered ringing a third time, the door opened, exposing a bleary-eyed, bed-headed Leon Patterson.

What the hell are you doing here at six in the morning? Did we have an appointment? Leon yawned, his jaw cracking.

Conrad frowned. Oh, no. Tell me we have an appointment.

They didn’t, of course. Everyone thought Conrad was attending a massage conference in nearby Niagara Falls. He’d spouted off about it often to prepare for this morning. The conference existed—he’d timed his visit here to coincide with it. He’d even registered for the conference, booked a hotel room, and checked in. It made the perfect alibi for a professional masseur, and he’d return to the room after he finished here.

Leon scrubbed his face with his hands and then ran them through his wavy brown hair, spiking it up even more. Didn’t you have a conference?

Starts tomorrow. Conrad frowned as though puzzled.

My phone didn’t fire off a reminder.

What the hell? Weird, man. It’s in my appointment book. Sorry I woke you for nothing. He brightened as though struck with a brilliant idea. Why don’t I give you a free half-hour massage for the inconvenience?

I haven’t even had coffee. Leon hesitated, squinting in contemplation. But it’d be great. After another pause, he said, I’ll pay you. It’s your job, and you should be paid for your time.

Yeah, Mister Money Bags has it to throw around. Conrad smiled. Sure, I’ll take your money.

Leon opened the door wide and ushered Conrad into the main foyer. An opulent living room with grey broadloom and French provincial couches, chairs, and loveseats in tan sprawled to his right. A glass coffee table, a glass hutch, and a large glass china cabinet added sparkle to the room.

Whenever he entered this house, he fought the urge to smash everything. He visualized taking a sledgehammer to all that fragile junk. If it weren’t for this pompous jerk, Conrad would be rich, famous—happy. As it was, he struggled to pay his bills while Leon rattled around in an enormous mansion with only his sister Daphne to share it.

Pretentious. Who needs seven thousand square feet of home?

His desire for what Leon owned didn’t strike Conrad as hypocritical. The little peckerhead had everything handed to him. Leon hadn’t earned it, hadn’t struggled the way Conrad struggled. How was that fair?

Forcing his teeth to unclench, he made his way to the kitchen, Leon padding after him.

Shall we have coffee to wake you up? Conrad stopped next to the cappuccino machine and inclined his head. I’d make it for you, buddy, but I don’t know how to work this contraption.

Leon, fully awake now, grinned. No problem. Sit.

Conrad eyed the four rattan-backed barstools pushed up against the gleaming white island in the centre of the kitchen. He strolled over to a stool snugged up against the island near the embedded gas range. When Leon turned away to set up the coffee maker, Conrad covered his hand with his shirt cuff and yanked the stool out. By the time Leon spun around again, Conrad sat on the barstool, elbows on the island’s granite top, chin resting on hands.

I gotta say, I rarely wake up this early. Leon set spoons, sugar, and milk in front of Conrad.

Where’s Daphne? She was at work, but he needed Leon to verify. Better to be safe. The last thing he needed was his future wife walking in on him murdering her brother—not that she knew she was his future wife. The housekeeper always arrived in the afternoon, so he was safe there, too.

Work. She has the morning shift at the diner all week.

Bummer. Wasn’t she on the night shift last week?

Yeah.

The coffee maker rumbled and Leon retrieved mugs from the cupboard. She doesn’t mind. We’re sure the job’s only temporary.

You helping sell her book? A big-name author such as Leon surely worked his magic for his sister even though he’d done diddly squat for his good pal Conrad. Selfish. The man was self-absorbed and selfish.

I’m doing what I can, sure. Leon poured coffee and walked the mugs to the island. He snagged a seat next to Conrad and doctored his coffee with milk and sugar.

When Conrad didn’t make a move to add anything to his coffee, Leon raised his brows. Aren’t you having milk?

Nah. I’m cutting out dairy. He wasn’t. The less he touched in the house, the better. In a few minutes, Leon would thrash on the floor in death throes. Whether Conrad used dairy wouldn’t matter to Leon ever again.

You got a lactose problem? I didn’t know that.

Conrad shrugged. Neither did I.

He stifled the smirk before it displayed on his face and grinned instead. A glance at the time showed twenty minutes had passed—time to get this project underway.

Hey, can I buy a copy of your last paperback from you? That ought to shove Leon’s ass from the room.

Delight crossed Leon’s face. Yeah, sure. Awesome.

Can you sign it? Make it out to Beth Holmes and add today’s date? I’m giving it as a gift.

Sure. Be right back.

The moment Leon disappeared from sight, Conrad slipped the packet of powder from his pocket and tipped it into Leon’s coffee.

Poison was a woman’s weapon. As an aspiring author, Conrad often researched murder. After deciding to use poison, he’d visited the library in St. Catharines to figure out which one suited his needs. Water hemlock fit perfectly into his plans. It worked fast and would make Leon suffer before he died.

Served him right. He should have helped Conrad sell his novel. Leon had influence, but his petty selfishness made him keep all the fame and glory for himself. He wasn’t even a talented writer. His editor did the heavy lifting. Conrad had read Leon’s books and found the stories lacked depth. They weren’t intellectually stimulating masterpieces like Conrad’s novels.

Here ya go. Leon reappeared and held up the book, front facing out.

The cover showed a half-naked couple canoodling, glittering masks covering their eyes, the woman’s wrists in handcuffs. He opened the book and displayed the title page. On it, he’d written To Beth Holmes. Hope it spices up your nights. Leon Patterson. Under the signature, he’d written the current date. The signature displayed exaggerated loops and swirls.

Conrad winced. Erotica. The man wrote erotica and made millions from it. Life just wasn’t fair. He picked up his mug and raised it in a toast. Thanks, buddy. Cheers.

Leon raised his mug and tapped it against Conrad’s. Cheers.

Conrad sipped, his gaze riveted on Leon’s eyes as he drank the tainted coffee. No matter what, Conrad wanted to witness the light in the other man’s eyes dim and flicker out. He’d read about killers who’d watched their victims die. What a rare and precious opportunity to observe the moment of death. This would be research as well as revenge.

Fifteen minutes later, the tremors started and Leon’s mug crashed to the floor. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, and he made a pleading gesture with his hands. His eyes went wide and the aroma of shit rent the air. He tumbled from his chair onto the cold, hard floor, his groans filling the room as he curled into a ball.

Gee, buddy, Conrad said, don’t you feel well?

***

The whole thing took too long, and not only did Leon soil himself, he puked. Conrad almost missed the eyes going blank when Leon’s flailing flipped him onto his stomach. Though it disgusted him, Conrad, who’d slipped on a pair of gloves, turned his victim over and kneeled on him, holding his face until life fled. When Leon finally lay still, Conrad rose, dumped his coffee down the sink, and washed and put away his mug.

He rushed up the short flight of stairs to Leon’s office.

Bright sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided an unobstructed view of the lush grounds and the glittering Niagara River backdrop. Almost every room in this house overlooked the Niagara River. Conrad seethed. This property was worth at least eight million. Soon it would be his—well, his and Daphne’s.

He’d already laid the groundwork. They’d dated twice. She hadn’t allowed him to fuck her yet, but he’d get there. Once she was his, she’d fall in line. Stupid cow, using sex as a weapon, withholding it from him. He’d have to set her straight now she couldn’t hide behind Leon.

With a shake of his head, he forced his attention back to the job at hand. Where was the laptop? Ah, there. The bag for it stood next to the desk. Leon had probably been working outside yesterday. His covered patio off the back of the house overlooked not just the pool, but the Niagara River. The deck even sported a television and wet bar.

Conrad snatched up the bag standing next to the desk and removed the laptop. As soon as it booted up, he logged on with the password he’d stolen from Leon. The trusting idiot. It’d been too easy. The moron had written it on a Post-it note and kept it right in his desk drawer where anyone could find it. Conrad had located it within seconds of nipping into the office on his way to the bathroom two weeks ago.

From the left pocket of his jeans, he retrieved a memory stick and stuck it into the first available slot. Now to find the files he wanted. This machine stored Leon’s whole life. Conrad had asked him about backups, and Leon had replied that, sure, he backed everything up to the cloud before he shut down. But he’d saved all the original files on the laptop.

This included industry contact lists and works in progress—and one work in progress was a non-fiction book on online book marketing. The notes contained a wealth of strategies and secrets.

He found the folders he needed no problem, but security prevented him from accessing them. Dammit.

A glance at the time showed him hours remained before the housekeeper arrived, but he needed to return to his hotel room before room service showed up with breakfast. He opened the internet browser and checked the history to see if he could find the backup folder location. No joy on that front either. It, too, was password protected. Conrad copied the link for future reference.

Maybe Daphne had access and wasn’t so careful about security. She always beta read for Leon, often the first person to read the completed work and provide feedback on it. Perhaps he’d provided her with copies of everything.

As Conrad powered down and tucked away the laptop, he scanned the room. His gaze landed on a smoky quartz rock, Leon’s souvenir from an archaeological dig he’d participated in when researching for a novel. Yeah, he’d researched archaeologists for an erotica novel. Mister Self-Important wanted to be genuine.

Conrad snatched up the rock and stuck it in his pocket. Mine. My trophy. My precious. He snickered and headed to Daphne’s office.

Chapter 2

Stately trees on either side of the peaceful country road screened the mansions behind them. Daphne Russel, driving a Mazda 3, approached the home she and her brother shared—a situation that must change soon.

She loved Leon, and the house was spacious enough, but she felt like a freeloader and wanted her own place. The last time she’d survived off the kindness of relatives was before she moved from her parents’ place to attend university. That’s why she worked as many hours as possible at a twenty-four seven diner in downtown Niagara Falls.

If she’d wanted more reasonable hours, she’d have found employment closer to home in Niagara-on-the-Lake. But then earning the money required to rent a decent place to live and move out would take months longer.

Since Warren, Daphne’s ex-husband, worked only sporadically, she paid him support, which chafed. He insisted his band would hit the big time soon, but he’d said that for the last five years of their marriage. The cliché was akin to caricature—the wannabe rock star living off his woman and never catching the big break.

The groupies he’d slept with, when Daphne discovered their existence, pushed the marriage off the cliff on which it teetered. Did he think her an idiot? She refused to slave away at menial jobs so he could booze and carouse and sleep until noon every day.

But they’d sure had fun before and even, for a while, after they’d married. Warren knew how to have a good time. The problem was, he didn’t know how to get serious and didn’t seem to care they were always broke. Music ruled his life, and, while she wanted to support his artistic pursuits, if he never treated it as a business, he’d never succeed.

She sighed in frustration. Lately, she constantly rehashed her life with Warren. Of course, she’d wanted to stand by her man. Daphne understood wanting to have a career in the arts. Her brother made a living as an author, and she received small revenues from sales of her novels. But it resulted from hard work and treating it as a business first.

Love you. Love you. Love you, she muttered, and her tension eased. Damn. Thoughts of Warren had her repeating phrases. She’d gone a whole week without using the self-soothing technique.

How many times had Warren insisted he lived to write and play music? Yet he never promoted himself or the band. Damn. Here she was, back onto Warren. Dammit, get out of my head.

Thankfully, she’d arrived home. The rest of her stress released at the thought of the free evening ahead. The clock read only three o’clock. If he hadn’t eaten yet, she’d pester Leon to stop working long enough to have dinner with her. They hadn’t had a meal together in days.

Daphne spotted the police cars while halfway down the long, tree-lined driveway. The sun cast dappled shadows over the asphalt, the trees arching overhead reminiscent of a green tunnel. Ahead, on the roundabout by the huge fountain in the courtyard, sat two police cars, two unmarked cruisers, and an ambulance.

The blood froze in Daphne’s veins, and her heart thudded against her chest. Oh, God. Leon?

For a selfish moment, she hoped Giselle Northrop, the housekeeper, needed the ambulance rather than her brother. Then guilt overwhelmed her, and she shoved the thought aside.

Daphne left the car in the driveway, almost forgetting to put it in park before jumping out, and rushed to the entrance.

The glass door of the porch and the ornate front doors stood propped open. A police officer positioned outside held up a hand before she reached the porch.

I’m sorry, ma’am, he said, but you can’t enter.

I live here. What happened? Where’s Leon? When he hesitated, she added, My brother.

The cop, who looked younger than Daphne’s thirty-four years, asked her to wait a moment and used a walkie-talkie to call into the house. Detective Turner, the sister’s here.

What happened to Leon? Why is a detective here?

I’m sorry. His expression showed true sorrow. Detective Turner will explain everything.

A tall man in a business suit appeared, and the officer introduced Detective Jacob Turner to Daphne. Barely registering the man’s outthrust hand and grim expression, Daphne tried to push past him.

I need to see my brother. Who’s the ambulance for? Why do you need an ambulance?

***

Jacob gripped her upper arms and held her still, assessing the woman standing before him. He recognized her brother’s square jaw, but the doe-brown eyes and flowing black hair were all hers. The eyes held fear and worry.

I’ll explain, but first, please verify: you’re Daphne Russel? He eased the grip on her arms and then released them.

Yes, yes. Let me in.

I need to see identification. His voice was firm but kind.

Daphne dug into her purse and fished out her wallet. When she located her driver’s license, she thrust it at his face.

Mrs. Russel, I’m sorry. Leon died this morning. The death looked suspicious, so the homicide unit was called in.

The tech guys had reviewed video footage from the security cameras. The recordings showed a blonde woman on a bicycle approaching the house. For now, Jacob kept that to himself.

Homicide? The fear in her eyes turned to shock. Who’d hurt Leon? You’re mistaken. Please, let me in.

When they’ve finished collecting evidence from the scene, you may enter.

The scene? Daphne’s brows drew together, and she frowned, broadcasting confusion, puzzlement, more shock.

The kitchen. Jacob hated this part of the job. Informing someone of a loved one’s murder always affected him. For the sake of the victim’s family, he must present a strong yet compassionate demeanor. Their lives would alter after he finished speaking to them. How he handled them influenced how they coped afterwards.

Did he choke? More denial.

Jacob shook his head. Nothing’s certain until they do the autopsy.

Where’s Giselle? Daphne’s voice broke and tears trickled from her eyes. She swiped them away.

Home. She found your brother’s body and called nine-one-one. I questioned and released her. Gently, Jacob pried the wallet from her hands and dropped it back in her purse.

Why didn’t you come and tell me at the restaurant? Her tone was accusatory.

He stifled a retort and gentled his voice. We were getting to that. First, we needed to secure the scene and interview the housekeeper.

Let me see him. I need to verify it’s him. What if she made a mistake? It might be someone else.

Mrs. Northrop reported she’s worked as a housekeeper for Leon for four years. She’s certain it’s him. I’m sorry. He took her by the arm. When he tried to steer her towards the driveway, she balked.